Actions and Reactions
by Smeghead
Summary: equel to 'Rest and Recovery' and 'Consquences of Failure'. The Army is planning to secure Sunnydale, Joyce offers support to Buffy and Xander, and everyone's favourite group of stuffy Englishmen get an unexpected visit.


Actions and Reactions 

**_Actions and Reactions_**

**_Author: Robert Cox smeghead_76[at]dodo.com.au)_**

**_Rating: M-15+ (Australian system) for violence, language, and other fun stuff_**

**_Disclaimer: Once more, with feeling - the rights and responsibilites to Buffy are owned by Mutant Enemy (and boy, *do* they have some responibilities to the characters), not me. Honestly, do you think that the show would have turned out the way it did if I was the one in charge?_**

**_Summary: Sequel to 'Rest and Recovery' *and* 'Consquences of Failure' (again, due to popular demand). The Army is planning to secure Sunnydale, Joyce offers support to Buffy and Xander, and everyone's favourite group of stuffy Englishmen get an unexpected visit._**

**_Pairings: Oz/Willow, Buffy/Xander friendship... *just* friendship, alright?_**

**_Feedback: I think we've all come to the understanding tha it's a cycle. The more feedback you give, the more fics you get - which applies to the group in general, not just my humble contributions._**

**_AN: Sheesh! Now I understand in a whole new way why rabbits have survived everything that's been thrown at them in Australia..._**

**_****_**

**_Married officer's quarters   
Miramar Naval Air Station_**

Joyce Summers was rapidly becoming a very worried woman.

She'd been assigned quarters on base - unlike most of the other Sunnydale survivors, who had been put up in hotels in San Diego - probably because of who she was sharing those accomodations with. She'd never really known before that military bases had normal-style housing on them before, but she was glad there was, as things would be rather crowded unless they'd been assigned a four-bedroom house.

The four teenagers she was looking after - Buffy, Xander, Willow and Oz - flatly refused to be separated, and Joyce hadn't wanted to leave them alone. Willow and Oz were still grieving for the loss of their families, and Buffy was grieving for Angel. 

Willow and Oz had spent most of the day talking to Father Jim and his Jewish counterpart, Rabbi Samuel Berkowitcz - who insisted on being called Sam - and both chaplians said that they seemed to be doing better. Of course, they were still deep in mourning, but they seemed to be coming out of their shells. No, it was Buffy, and especially Xander that she was worried about.

Buffy had refused to be parted from Xander's side, almost as if she was determined to be the one to provide the help that Xander so badly needed. Joyce suspected that that was the case, and under other circumstances, she would have been the first to cheer Buffy on.

However, Buffy had her own mourning to do, and pushing it aside to help Xander deal with his own guilt and pain might be helping him, but it certainly wasn't helping her. Joyce had spoken to Willow about the previous night, and while the compassion that she and Oz had shown had deeply moved Joyce, the major concern on Buffy's behalf was that she might be in denial over Angel's death. Jim and Sam had both talked to her, both in an official capacity and more informally over a cup of coffee, and they both agreed that denial was a worrying possibility.

"It'd be better for the young lady if she let her emotions out," Sam had told Joyce. "While it's good that she's got you to turn to, at the moment she's too fixed on helping young Xander to do her own grieving. I'm sure I don't need to tell you that that's possibly a bad thing."

Joyce had been impressed with Sam's analysis. Under a bluff exterior beat the heart of a scholar. A keen amateur historian, he also held a degree in psychology from UCLA, which he'd obtained by correspondance, and he was working on his Master's degree, with an eye towards eventually obtaining a Doctorate in Philosophy on the subject. "It passes the time, Mrs. Summers," he'd answered her questions as to why. "It was better than wondering when my services were going to be called on next." Joyce had understood that he hadn't meant Sabbath services and the normal duties of a rabbi.

Although she was worried for Buffy, her main cause of worry was Xander. Ever since his arrival, he'd been essentially unresponsive, and Buffy had had to literally lead him by the hand before he would move. Jim was deeply worried for Xander. "He's feeling responsible for the each and every one of the deaths in Sunnydale yesterday," he'd told her that morning over a cup of coffee while the four teenagers were talking to Sam. "Sam and I will do all we can, of course, and Daniel and Willow have taken it on themselves to try to help Xander, but I'm afraid a lot of the burden is going to fall on you Joyce, now that you seem to have adopted Xander as your own son."

Joyce had started to explain herself, but Jim had simply smiled. "I think it's a _wonderful_ idea, myself, Joyce. And I can only be more impressed with the level of support you've shown for Daniel and Willow as well. I'll be sure to mention that to my boss in dispatches next time I get the chance."

That caused Joyce some confusion. What did he mean by his 'boss'. The officer in charge of the Chaplian Corps? The base commander? Who?

Seeing her confusion, his smile broadened and he pointed up. "My _big_ boss, Joyce."

She'd understood him immediately, and laughed softly. "Thanks, Jim."

"Don't mention it, Joyce."

Now she was sitting at the kitchen table, sipping at a mug of hot chocolate - the rich, creamy drink being her one daily indulgence - where she could keep a watchful yet unobtrusive eye on Buffy and Xander.

Buffy was sitting at one end of the couch, while Xander was curled up on the couch, with his head resting in her lap. He seemed to be asleep, and the occasional twitch meant that the was probably dreaming of Sunnydale again, and tears were streaming down his cheeks. Buffy was staring at the television - without really seeing it, Joyce suspected - and one hand unconsciously stroked Xander's hair, probably a gesture to provide whatever support she could. Occasionally, a tear would trickle down her cheeck, which indicated to Joyce that she was probably thinking about Angel.

Joyce felt a lump rise in her throat as she took in the scene, which was a lifeless parody of the times Xander and Willow had visited for a 'video night'. Xander and Buffy would sit close together on the couch, while Willow took up a position on the floor, in her self-appointed role as guardian of the snack food. If Buffy and Willow had chosen the videos - which they often did - Xander would keep up a running commentary throught the movie, and Buffy would poke him in the ribs every time he made a particularly smart-alecked somment. Xander would tolerate this for a while, before he started tickling her. 

Willow would then look up, slightly annoyed that they were interrupting the movie. Acting on some sort of unspoken signal, both Buffy and Xander would then grab cushions and start hitting Willow with them, and she'd start giggling and saying "Stop that!" before threatening to cut off the supply of snack food unless they stopped - which always worked.

Throughout this, Joyce would be standing unnoticed in the doorway, happy that her daughter had such good friends.

And now?

Xander was an emotional _wreck_, and Buffy was not much better off. Oz and Willow were doing the best they could to help, but they had their own emotional burdens to deal with. In fact, they were taking a long walk on the beach together as part of the 'healing process'.

Joyce was taking every chance she got to talk to Buffy and Xander, and she seemed to be making progress.

But was she making _enough_ progress?

**_****_**

Buffy knew that her mother was keeping an eye on her, but she didn't mind. In fact, she was welcoming the parental support that was on offer. _At least you still_ have _a mother to turn to_, a little voice whispered in the back of her mind, which caused her to start guiltily. All of the others' parents had died yesterday, but Angel had rescued her mother before he... went away.

When her mother had reached out to Xander this morning, she had felt nothing but love for the mother who was willing to accept somebody else's pain and try to heal it.

And when her mother had offered her sympathies for Angel, her love had doubled, even as she broke down in tears. _Mom and Angel never got along, even before the Angelus thing last year_, she thought. _But she managed to put that aside... just for me_.

_Angel._

She started weeping quietly as she thought about the time they'd had together, the times when they'd backed each other up on patrols, the times they'd saved each other's lives.

_Who's going to do that for me now?_

Unbidden, Xander's face rose within her imagination. Ever since she arrived in Sunnydale, he'd been there for her. He'd been the first person to offer her his help when he'd found out about her 'destiny'. In fact, he'd even saved her life when The Master drained her.

She thought of all the times Xander had offered her his emotional support, been her rock and a shoulder to cry on.

_And he needs me now._

It was more than simply repaying a debt - although romantic feelings never entered her mind. Xander, to her, was in that middle ground - more than 'just a friend', but not quite up to 'boyfriend' level, and not quite a big brother who offered her support against the things she fought.

In short, she was unable to place Xander within the framework of her life, although there was no way she could imagine her life without him. He was important to her, that went without saying, but she was unable to precisely say _how_ important.

Her thoughts were interrupted when Xander gasped, "No!" and sat bolt upright, his shoulders shaking as he sobbed. Without thinking, she grabbed him in an embrace. He struggled for a moment before remembering where he was, and then he sagged into her arms. "It was horrible," he whispered, obviously talking about the nightmare that had woken him. "When will it stop?"

"Oh, Xander," she whispered through a suddenly tight throat.

She blinked as her mom took a position on the other side of Xander. Had she _run_ from the dining room?

**_****_**

Xander had been asleep, and dreaming... and his dreams hadn't been pleasant. Shakespeare had pretty much gotten it right when he'd penned the words, "To sleep, perchance to dream. Aye, there's the rub."

In his nightmare, the dead of Sunnydale had been parading past him, as he stood there, unable to move. "_Your_ fault," they were saying.

"Because of _you_, we died..."

"Because of _you_, we lost our lives..."

"I did everything I could!" he'd protested. "How was I to know that the mayor would tear up the wiring?"

"Excuses..." the dead hissed in chorus.

"Typical of the boy," he heard his father's voice say. "Fucks something up, and then tries to make excuses."

"Why should you live when we don't?"

That last statement, delivered by a spectre with her throat torn open, had been the thing that had jolted him from an uneasy sleep. The fact that it had been Cordelia who had accused him was just the final straw.

"No!" he gasped, and sat bolt upright. He felt something grab him from behind, and he struggled to break free, fearing for a moment that the ghosts who haunted his nightmares were trying to drag him back so they could finish him off.

Then reality returned with a a rush, and he remembered that he was at a Navy base near San Diego, more specifically, in the house that the Scoobies - along with Buffy's mom - had been assigned as quarters. He remembered that he'd been curled up on the couch, resting his head in Buffy's lap as he tried to get _some_ sleep.

All of this passed through his head in a second, and then it was as if all strength left his body, causing him to sag limply into Buffy's embrace. "It was horrible," he whispered brokenly. "When well it stop?"

Buffy's answering whisper of, "Oh, Xander," barely registered.

He then registered a second presence on his other side, and heard another voice - a familiar voice that he couldn't quite identify at the moment - say, "Xander, dear..."

His sleep-deprived and somehwat fragmentary thought processes didn't analyse the situation too deeply. _Hey_, they said, _here's someone acting like a mother to us - must be Mom_, conveniently ignoring the sort of attention that Xander's mother had paid to her son, along with the fact that both of Xander's parents were entombed in the rubble of their house.

Right then, that didn't matter in the slightest.

He hurled himself forward, wrapping his arms around the person his shell-shocked brain idenitfied as 'Mom' in a tight hug. "Make it stop, Mom," he whispered in a hurt-little-boy tone of voice. "Make it go away."

**_****_**

Joyce blinked with some surprise when Xander suddenly hugged her, and she had to start blinking back tears of her own when Xander called her "Mom" in that broken tone of voice.

She remembered a young man with a humourous glint in his eye and a practically inexhaustible supply of jokes - granted, not all of them were good, but the fact that he was willing to make the attempt to keep everyone's spirits up won him admiration from her.

And now?

That same young man was now broken, and clutching her like a lifeline, tormented beyond endurance. Suddenly, she realised _why_ it was that the others were so willing to put their own grief aside in order to help Xander.

He'd been the one who'd kept the group together in times of crisis. Even Rupert admitted that he'd been slightly comforted by Xander's propensity for making bad jokes and off-colour comments, thinking that things couldn't be _that_ bad if Xander was still trying to make them laugh. He'd even admitted that the "G-man" nickname that Xander had bestowed upon him didn't annoy him all that much, and that his efforts to get the young man to desist were merely keeping up appearances.

And now, he needed the same sort of help that he'd given them in the past - help which they were more than willing to provide. She'd have to mention this to Jim or Sam the next time they talked, and see what they thought of the situation.

Her train of thought was derailed when Xander calmed slightly, blinked the tears from his eyes, and looked up at the face of the person who been the most recent person to offer him comfort. His face flushed with embarassment when he realised that he'd called her "Mom".

"Oh, _God_, I'm sorry, Mrs. S," he said, and started to draw back.

Joyce was having none of that, however. "Don't, Xander," she said gently, yet firmly, tightening her hug. "You need someone to turn to in the role of a mother, and well... I seem to be the one who's been selected."

Xander's eyes widened as the meaning of that statement sank in, and he flicked a glance over his shoulder at Buffy, who was nodding and smiling - the first real smile that she'd had since yesterday. Renewing his hug, he whispered, "Thank you," and Joyce suddenly found herself blinking back tears at the emotion in his voice.

Forget about waiting to talk to Jim and Sam - this was something they had to know right _now_. "Why don't the two of you clean yourselves up a litte, and then we'll pay a visit to Jim and Sam for a litte chat."

Xander nodded, and said, "All right... Mom." Acting completely on impulse, she leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead, eliciting a sheepish grin, before both he and Buffy left in the direction of the master bathroom.

Waiting until she heard a shower start up - and firmly putting out of her mind any speculation as to wether they were sharing that shower, although the sounds of a second shower starting up seemed to indicate they were having seperate showers - she dialled the number for the chapel, and when Jim answered, she briefly described what had happened.

"That sounds promising, Joyce," Jim said, his tone indicating that he was deep in thought. "Why don't you bring them over, so we can have a little chat?"

Joyce grinned. Even though she'd only known Jim for a day or so, he was sharp enough that he'd generally been a step ahead of her in their talks regarding the four teens. It was nice to turn the tables on him for once. "Actually, we're about to head over now," she said.

Jim chuckled, which came clearly through the phone. "Why, Joyce, it would seem that I've underestimated you. I'll put the jug on, and I'll see you in a few minutes."

**_****_**

When they arrived in his office, Jim greeted them warmly - which Xander returned, a sign of his burgeoning emotional recovery - and directed them to comfortable seats. It was obvious that he noticed that Buffy and Xander were holding hands, but he made no comment, recognising the gesture of support for what it was.

Once he'd provided mugs of Navy coffee - "A recipe handed down to me by my father, and one he claimed would strip paint from the hull of a battleship." - he took a seat himself, preferring to join them rather than sit behind his desk.

"How are you feeling, Xander?" he asked once everyone was settled in.

"Terrible, Father," Xander replied. "I tried to have a nap, and still had the nightmares." His expression was haunted as he asked, "When will they stop?"

"I think I'm going to have to get a sign made that says, 'Call me Jim'," Jim commented before taking a sip of his coffee, in order to gain a moment to order his thoughts. "To be honest, Xander," he said, "the nightmares will probably be with you for some time. However," he added, when Xander's expression started to crumple, "you are most fortunate in that you have friends who are willing to help you in your time of need." He took another sip of coffee, this time to hide a slight grin, as Buffy squeezed Xander's hand and Joyce placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed lightly.

Xander's expression brightened - still gloomy, but a noticeable improvement over its normal state - as he realised the amount of support that was available for him. The rest of the conversation was much lighter as they talked about various subjects - including Buffy's long-overdue break from Slaying, as the military geared itself to provide assistance in that regard; and the possibility of the Scoobies acting in an advisory role along with Giles.

"Would that mean that I'd have to wear tweed?" Xander asked, and the fact that he'd made a joke - no matter how weak - was yet another sign that he was on the road to recovery, although the fact that he left it there without any follow-up commentary indicated that there was still a long way to go.

"No, I shouldn't think so, Xander," Jim said with a small chuckle. Joyce added her own light chucke and Buffy smiled encouraginly at him.

Just then, Xander's stomach growled, which further served to lighten the mood. "I think you'd better get yourself something to eat, Xander," Jim said with a smile. "Before I start wondering where the bull mastiff is hiding in my office."

For a moment, the scared-little-boy look reappeared in Xander's eyes, and Jim exchanged glances with Joyce, before cutting his eyes over to Buffy. Understanding that he wanted to talk to Buffy, she placed her hand on his shoulder. "Come on, Xander," she said gently. "We'll see if we can find you something to eat."

"Take him to the officer's dining room, Joyce," Jim said. "I know that the normal time for lunch has passed, but there should be something available for him."

Once Xander and Joyce had left in search of a meal, Jim turned to Buffy and asked, "And how are _you_ doing, Buffy?"

Seeing only compassion in Jim's expression, Buffy went with complete honesty. "I know Oz and Willow told you what happened last night," she began, at which Jim nodded, "but a few times today, I started to think about Angel, and it was all I could do not to completely break down." A tear trickled down her cheek as she continued, "Xander needs me to be there for him - like he's been there for me in the past - and I can't let myself be distracted!"

Taking a seat next to her, Jim placed a hand on Buffy's shoulder and said gently, "Buffy, you need to do your own grieving, and locking up your emotions to help Xander isn't allowing that to happen. Please don't take this as a criticism of your efforts - I think that what you're doing is wonderful - but you shouldn't keep on putting your own grief aside. For instance, your mother is more than willing to help - help the both of you in fact."

He could see that his words were having an effect on Buffy, so he continued, still in that gentle tone of voice, "There's no shame in letting your emotions show, Buffy. Forget for a moment that you're the Slayer, destined to protect the world. There are others who can take up that burden for now. Just... be _you_ for a time."

Surprise blossomed on her features, and she looked sharply at Jim. "How did you..." she treailed off, unable to complete the question.

"Rupert told me," he replied simply. "And as for the other... Buffy, do you _really_ think that the military's contribution will stop with the liberation of Sunnydale? You now have a chance to take an extended period of rest and relaxation, and I think it would be a grave mistake not to make full use of that chance."

That simplicity, along with the sincerity in his voice, finally broke through the emotional barriers Buffy had erected, and she slumped in the chair and started sobbing. "Why?" she asked brokenly in between sobs. "Why did he gve himself up for me? He could have escaped with us, but he didn't!"

She looked up at Jim - he could see the tears coursing down her cheeks, and while her pain struck a chord within him, part of him was relieved that she'd finally opened up - as she said, "The thing is, he and Xander never got along, but he knocked Xander out to stop _him_ from sacrificing himself, and to force me to leave. Why would he do that?"

Jim thought for a moment before replying. He sensed that what he would say next would have a crucial impact on Buffy's recovery. "He loved you too much to let you sacrifice yourself in that way, Buffy, and he used the means at hand to achieve that goal. And although he and Xander might not have gotten along, he probably could not have abandoned one of your friends to their fate. Tell me, Buffy," he continued, "if both Angel and Xander had stayed behind to act as rearguard, would you have left?"

"O-of course not," Buffy said determinedly.

"So, we have the situation where both Angel and Xander were willing to lay down their lives in order to ensure your safety, and you refusing to go without them. The actions of Angel at that point was probably the only way he could think of to get you to go."

Buffy could see that, and her sobbing increased as she realised _just_ how much Angel had loved her. "But if all three of us had stayed, we _all_ might have been able to make it to safety," she said.

"I won't pretend to be abe to know what was going through Angel's mind at that moment, but it seems to me that he thought the chances of your making it to safety if you remained with him to be extremely slender," Jim said. "If it's any consolation, his bravery and love for you would have been enough to win him a place in heaven as his reward."

Buffy looked at him hopefully. Although she'd never been particulalrly religious, she was willing to grab any hope that offered itself. "Y-you think so?" she asked, desperate for reassurance.

"I _know_ so, Buffy," he said with absolute certainty.

For a moment, Buffy looked at him hopefully, before she started sobbing again as she started on the long road to recovery.

**_****_**

**_Mission planning area   
Miramar NAS_**

The room, like the mass briefing room, was a large one, but the Three Corps planning staff managed to stretch its capacity as they drew up plans for liberating Sunnydale. They'd spent the last few hours discussing and revising the various options available to them.

The deployment of ground-attack craft, such as A-10 'Thunderbolt' - nicknamed 'Warthog' by its pilots due to the fact that it was a spectacularly _ugly_ aircraft - and AH-64 'Apache' helicopter gunships to both Miramar and Twentynine Palms, along with the availability of AV-8B 'Harrier' and A-7 'Corsair' strike squadrons, had caused most of the required revision. Of course, it wasn't anticipated that most of the available strike power now at their disposal would be _used_, but the firepower security blanket was still comforting.

But now, the pace of activity had slackened off as various components of the plan were polished, submitted, approved and slotted into the overall plan. All that was required was the corps commander's final approval before it went out to the divisions involved so they could use the objectives and resources assigned to them to work out their own plans of operation, which would be slotted into the corps plan.

_Showtime_, the operations officer thought as he stepped forward to begin the briefing. "Good afternoon, General," he said, addressing the briefing mainly to the corps commander. "The subject of this afternoon's briefing will be the operational plan for the liberation of Sunnydale."

He clicked a button on the remote he held in one hand, and on the large flatscreen monitor behind him, the first slide of the multimedia presentation appeared. Unlike briefings done in the field, he'd had access to Mirimar's computers, and he'd made full use of those resources. This was _so_ much easier than struggling with an easel and paper maps, charts and force disposition tables.

In fact, most of his afternoon had been spent creating the presentation, along with the help of a couple of the naval computer techs on-base, and the rest of the time had ben spent with a couple of his deputies, rehearsing the briefing and working out the timings.

The corps commander raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything about the use of computers to prepare the briefing... until he read the proposed operation name.

"Operation Grey Knights?" he asked, surprised. "What sort of name is _that_? More to the point, though, who was responsible for it?"

"Errr... that would be me, sir," the operations officer confessed. "My son enjoys playing a tabletop battle game - with painted miniature models - called Warhammer 40,000, and apparently there's a Space Marine Chapter called the Grey Knights who are trained and equipped to hunt down and kill demons." He shrugged before continuing. "Given the likely opposition that will be faced, it thought it would be appropriate." His facade of calmness was covering a nervous interior, although he wasn't exactly sure what would happen if the corps commander decided to displeased... just that having a three-star general upset at your for _any_ reason is generally a bad idea.

However, the corps commander simply shrugged and said, "It's a good a name as any other."

Hiding his relief, the operations officer clicked the button again, and the title slide vanished to be replaced by a list of unit names and designations. "As you can see, the plan for Operation Grey Knights as it stands calls for the use of two divisions, plus attached support troops as shown. Two infantry divisions, the Fourth and Fifth, will be assigned along with corps-level attachments, such as combat engineer and artillery assests. Also assigned will be helicopter gunship units and ground attack aircraft to provide extra supporting fire if required." Click. The slide vanished, the be replaced by a map of Sunnydale and its surroundings, with icons displaying unit locations down to battalion level.

"This is the current disposition of forces around Sunnydale," the operations officer continued. "As you can see, there is currently an evenly-balanced deployment around Sunnydale, maintaining the perimeter." Click. The new slide looked similar, apart from the concentration of icons in two locations on the perimeter, labelled '4ID (Mech)' and '5ID (Mech)'.

"This is the anticipated new deployment of forces as of zero-six-hundred tomorrow morning," The operations officer explained. "The actual deployment of units within each divisional Area of Operations is up to the discretion of the division commanders, of course, but it is expected that deployments will be something along these lines. As you can see, the Third Armoured Division will be held as corps reserve." Click. The slide changed, as two arrows indicating projected advances were added, along with coloured lines.

"The operation is scheduled to commence at zero-nine-hundred, which will allow three hours for equipment checks and pre-combat inspections. From the Line of Departure, both divisions will advance on a broad front, meeting and clearing Phase Lines - in order - Green, Blue, Yellow and Red for the Fourth Infantry Division and Phase Lines Brown, Purple, White and Black for the Fifth Infantry Division. It is anticipated that join-up will occur at Sunnydale Town Hall before nightfall tomorrow, scheduled for nineteen-hundred.

"There are four objective locations for this operation, which are: Sunnydale General Hosptial, which has been assigned to the Fourth Infantry Division; the site of the Sunnydale Motor Lodge, and Sunnydale High School, which have been assigned to the Fifth Infantry Division; and Sunnydale Town Hall, which has been assigned as a corps-level objective.

"According to information provided by Predator recon drones and Kiowa scout helicopters, opposition will be light to very light, and operating under the assumption that they have managed to gain access to the Sunnydale Armoury by this time, it is expected that they will be equipped with various small-arms and light anti-armour weapons, such as the M-72 LAW and the AT-4. As the Sunnydale Armoury had also recently received a shipment of FIM-92 Stinger anti-aircraft missiles, it will also be assumed that the opposition will have them operational by the time operations commences, and all pilots taking part have been warned to activate defensive measures.

"According to a weapons inventory taken two weeks ago, there were no heavy anti-armour weaopns present in the Sunnydale Armoury, but armoured vehicle commanders should be alert for anti-armour fire.

"According to information provided by Mister Giles, the opposition will be scattered and un-coordinated, with no centralised leadership. This mean that their fighting abilities will be less than those of a similar regular unit, but this does mean that there will be no leadership or command targets of opportunity."

"That, General concludes my briefing unless, of course, you have any questions," the operations officer concluded, placing the remote on the podium at the front of the room.

The corps commander consulted the notes he'd taken during the briefing. Ignoring the notes that would go towards the operations officer's next performance review, he concentrated on the notes he'd taken regarding deployments. "Why only two divisions in the assault echelon?" he asked. "And why no follow-on echelon?"

"To answer your first question, sir, the reason for a two-division initial commitment is troop densities and concentration. If more units were committed, particularly in the assault echelon, they would simply be too crowded, especially given the size of the AO.

"That leads into the answer for your second question. As the units approach the corps-level objective, the contstricting frontages available will mean that the division commanders will probably have to peel off companies - if not entire battalions - to ensure that units do not become too crowded. These units would mop-up behind the main line of advance and secure the rear areas. Of course, sir, contingency plans have been prepared, including the commitment of a third division to the initial assault, and the commitment of one division as a follow-on echelon."

The operations officer reached for the remote in case the corps commander wanted to be briefed on the contingency plans, but the corps commander waved him off. "I'll look over those myself," he said, and the operations officer stifled a curse. They, too, had been prepared using Miramar's computers, but fortunately he had hard-copy printouts on hand.

"And if resistance is tougher than expected?"

"In the event of that occurance, the situation will be evaluated at the time, sir. If the troops already in action can handle the situation, the operation will continue as planned, extra supporting fire will be provided if required, and the timeline of the operated will be evaluted.

"If reinforcements are required, they will be provided, starting with units drawn from the Seventh Infantry Division, with additional units from One Corps and the First Marine Division available to be called on if required."

"I'll look those plans over myself, as well," the corps commander said. "No more questions. That was a good briefing," he added. "Now we have to wait and see how well it works."

**_****_**

**_Near the Council of Watchers Headquarters   
England_**

As the government Rolls approached the gates of the stately manor house, Jack Thomson, American Ambassador to Her Majesty's Government commented, "I've got to hand it to you Brits. You sure do know how to travel in style."

Phillip Watkins, Her Majesty's Home Minister, smiled before he replied. "Well, travelling in comfort _is_ one of the less expensive perks of the job. And we've discovered that comfortable travel allows for more productive work at the 'business end' of the trip," he said.

"Yeah, unless someone decides to take a luxury holiday at the government's expense," Thomson pointed out.

Watkins' smile thinned. "You do have a valid point. However, we _are_ strongly encouraged to pay our own way for all non-official travel and accomodation, which has cut down on the waste."

"Or it forces you to invent more creative excuses."

"True, but all it takes is one suspicious Exchequer bureaucrat to audit a M.P.'s expenses, which may result in said M.P. Having to repay the money. But to the subject at hand - how sure are you of this information?"

"Pretty sure. The source of the information, one Rupert Giles, is a former member of the Watchers, but was fired for showing too much concern for the Slayer under his control - apparently the word 'control' is supposed to be more literal than he imposed.

"And everything else he's told us about has panned out, so he's regarded as reliable."

"Some of the information is truly disturbing, particularly regarding the number of times the extinction of humanity has been averted by a narrow margin, and that people have willingly turned a blind eye," Watkins said. "I also find the treatment of the young girls called as Slayers to be reprehensible in the extreme."

"Yeah, I know you Brits can be a bit... self-confident at times, but these guys take that to a whole new level. I'm going to enjoy this," Thomson said, with some heat in his voice.

Watkins raised an eyebrow, as if to say, 'That's somewhat like the pot calling the kettle black', but refrained. What he _actually_ said was, "I understand that the P.M. Had an... adverse reaction to reading the information you showed me."

Thomson chuckled lightly. "That's another thing you Brits are good at - understatement," he said. "I gave him the summary folder - y'know, the one with the highlights, particularly of the exploits of Elizabeth Summers and her friends - there was dead silence for an hour or so while he read it, then he looked at me... and I honestly thought he was going to burst a blood vessel or something.

"He flatly asked, 'Is this true? _Has_ the human raced been saved on a number of occasions in the last three years by a group of teenagers? And are the actions attributed to this... 'Council of Watchers' a fair and accurate statement?'

"When I confirmed that was the fact - the bit about the teenagers saving the world's been backed up by statements from two of the group, Daniel Osbourne and Willow Rosenburg - his face... well, let's just say that I never knew that a person's face could _turn_ that colour."

"Yes, the P.M. can get emotional at times," Watkins confirmed.

"Which is probably why he said that he'd pretty much guarantee any extraidition orders for any members of the Council that we wanted," Thomson mused.

"Hypothetically speaking, if any Councill members _were_ arrested, what would their probable fates be?"

"Probably 'debriefing', followed by nice long jail stays... if they're co-operative."

"And if they refuse to co-operate?"

Thomson shrugged. "We might be able to find something with a death penalty clause to hang on them," he said.

"Or hang _them_ on," Watkins said with a chuckle.

Thomspon shook his head. "Sometimes, I think I'll never understand the British sense of humour," he said wryly. More seriously, he said, "I wish you'd tell me what the surprise you're planning is."

"If I told you, it wouldn't be too much of a surprise," Watkins said, still smiling. "Trust me, you'll love it."

"Famous last words," Thomson muttered, before twisting in his seat to ensure that the second car with the FBI liasion to New Scotland Yard along with a detective representing British law enforcement agencies was still behind them. "We going to play it like we talked about?" he asked.

Watkins nodded. "As we discussed. It should be effective."

The plan called for Thomson to emphasise the lack of subtlety that Americans were renowned for, playing to the prejudices undoubtedly held by the members of the Council. If the Council was in a non-cooperative mood - as they were expected to be - Watkins would take over... and introduce his "surprise".

Just then, the two-car convoy pulled up to the gates, and a private security guard approached the Rolls. Watkins lowered his window, and the guard bent down to speak through it. "May I be of assistance?" he asked.

"Yes, you may inform the Council of Watchers that a representative from Her Majesty's Government, along with the Ambassador from the United States of America, are here to meet with them on a variety of subjects of mutual interest," Watkins said.

The guard's expression didn't alter in the slightest. "I'm afraid some mistake must have been made, gentlemen. There is no such... organisation in residence here," he said smoothly.

"Don't mess me about, son," Thomson said, playing the 'unsubtle American' role to the hilt. "We know the Watchers live here, so you'd better tell them that we're here."

"Perhaps it would be prudent to mention that we have reason to believe that acts of a criminal nature have been planned from this building," Watkins said smoothly, in contrast to Thomson's bluntness. "I'm sure it would be in the resident's best interests to allow us entry." The threat was not diminished by the smoothness in Watkins' voice.

"Do you have a warrant authorising you to enter, gentlemen?" the guard asked.

"I believe my... associate has the required legal paperwork," Watkins said, as the New Scotland Yard detective emerged from the other car and walked to the guard, opening her briefcase and presenting the warrant as she approached.

The warrant had been granted in a closed court session, under the strictures of a D-Notice - a Defence Notice - citing 'reasons of national security' to explain why the session had been closed to the public and media. The speed with which it had been granted probably set some sort of record, after the presiding judge read some of the information provided by Giles.

"Everything seems to be in order," the guard said after scanning the warrant. "If you'll excuse me, gentlemen, I shall inform the residents of your presence." Returning to the gatehouse, the guard picked up a phone and spoke briefly to the person at the other end. Returning to the Rolls - the detective had returned to her car by this time - he said, "If you'll proceed to the end of the driveway, you'll be met at the doors."

"Thank you," Watkins said politely, while Thomson ignored the guard. Nodding to the driver, he sat back and relaxed as the two cars made their way up the long driveway. "Well done," he murmured to Thomson. "You played your role to perfection."

"Well, I was in the Acting Society at Harvard," Thomson said.

"You must have been quite good at it, then," Watkins remarked.

"Not too bad," Thomson admitted.

True to the guard's word, when the two cars pulled up in front of the manor house entrance, they were met by some sort of domestic employees - Watkins avoided the word 'servant' by conscious effort - who opened the doors of the Rolls and held them open while the two occupants climbed out.

"Wait here until we return," Watkins instructed the driver. "We shouldn't be too long. I'll let you know if that changes."

"Yes, Minister," the driver acknowledged.

Watkins was chuckling softly as the employee who seemed to be in charge of the others approached. "What's so funny?" Thomson asked.

"I was just reminded of an old television show by the name of 'Yes, Minister' which satirised the functions of government," Watkins replied.

Any reply Thomson might have made was prevented by the arrival of the domestic employee-in-charge - again, it took conscious effort on Watkins' part to avoid the use of the term 'butler'.

"If you gentlemen will follow me, the Council of Watchers will see you now," he said smoothly before turning to lead them into the manor.

"Hang on," Thomson protested, slipping back into his agreed-upon role. "The guard at the gate said there was no such group."

"Since you have legal documentation allowing you to enter, it was decided that any further attempt at deception would, at best, be futile," the employee said.

"Quite," Watkins agreed, while Thomson just snorted.

The trip through the manor house to the dining hall/conference room was undertaken in silence, while Watkins silently catalogued the artworks on display - a collection that the curator of any museum, such as the British Museum, would gladly sacrifice a limb or two to have in his collection. At the doors of the dining hall stood two guards, seemingly relaxed, but Watkins had also seen similar postures held by SAS troopers seconded to duty with the Diplomatic Protection Group.

Those men were poised to move without warning.

Watkins had been taught what to look for by DPG officers - not to mention SAS troopers - and he was fairly sure that he caught a glimpse of the outlines made by concealed weapons. He was also sure the New Scotland Yard detective noticed them as well, and was adding 'weapons laws violations' to the charge sheet she was undoubtedly composing in her head.

The employee stopped just before the doors and said, "May I have your names, gentlemen, so that you may be announced properly to the Council of Watchers?"

Watkins and Thomson gave their names and positions, and the employee nodded to the two guards, who opened the doors. As their jackets tightened across their shoulders, Watkins' opinion changed from 'fairly sure' to 'certain' regardng the possibility that they were carring concealed weapons.

The employee preceeded the group into the hall, and said in a loud clear voice, "Distinguished members of the Council of Watchers, I present to you Jonathon Thomson, Ambassador of the United States of America to Her Majesty's Government, and Phillip Watkins, Her Majesty's Home Minister."

He then stepped aside as the group entered the room, nodding to the guards to close the doors as they did. The two law enforcement officers took up a position near the doors - as instructed - and Watkins and Thomson crossed most of the intervening distance before halting... being very careful not to stand under the large skylight.

"Gentlemen," Watkins said.

"Good morning, Ambassador, Minister," the man at the centre of the table, and who appeared to be the Head Watcher said. "Allow me to intoduce myself. I am Charles Montgomery, and I am the Chief Concillor of the Council of Watchers. I must admit that this is the first time that a representative from Her Majesty's Government has visited us, let alone a cabinet minister accompanied by a foreign dignitary."

"Yes, the... secretive... nature of your group's activities _would_ rather preclude such visits, one would imagine," Watkins said smoothly. "Unfortunately, recent events in America have meant that you can operate in the shadows no longer."

"While we mourn for the loss of life in the terrible incident in Sunnydale," Montgomery said, "I fail to see how that concerns us."

"How about the fact that you lied and cheated to cover up your 'activities'?" Thomson said angrily. "You lied and cheated, and as a result, thousands of my countrymen are _DEAD_! Speaking for the government I represent, we tend to take that sort of thing _very_ personally!" Thomson was playing his role to the hilt, and his voice had risen to a near-shout. "In fact, we take that sort of thing as almost an act of _terrorism_ by association!"

"For thousands of years," Watkins continued, his voice an icy calm that did nothing to disguise his own digust at the men sitting across the table, "you have taken upon yourself perogatives that are normally the province of sovereign governments, in the process, reaping the rewards to give yourself a life of luxury."

"We took a responsibility that governments refused to accept," Montgomery countered smoothly. "Even in modern times, we have hesitated to pass along our knowledge, for fear of how some governments would put it to use."

Watkins nodded, conceding the point. There had been enough brutal dictatorships in world history, and that _without_ the excuse of 'protecting humanity from the demonic'. Wakins had to suppress a snort as the thought occurred to him the ogranisations such as the Office of the Holy Inquisition had shown that often, even those excuses hadn't been needed.

"That's as may be, gentlemen," Watkins acknowledged, "but it still does not excuse your actions regarding the young women who are called as Slayers."

"Yeah," Thomson added. "In my country we have a word for that - it's called 'slavery'. Look it up in the dictionary. We fought a war to get rid of it," he concluded angrily.

"Quite," Watkins picked up the thread - anyone present who was familiar with American police shows would call the actions of the two men 'good cop-bad cop' - "but that still leaves the issue of separating the Slayer from her family and friends, when the support that said family and friends could prove crucial. I refer you to the Slayer Elizabeth Summers as an example of that."

"The reason Slayers work alone is so that their families and friends are protected. If the forces of darkness found the Slayer's family and friends, they could be used as hostages to influence the Slayer's actions," Montgomery said in response.

"You raise a valid point," Watkins admitted. "Of course, that leaves out occasions when a Slayer's family and friends are threatened by members of this 'Council', in order to 'influence the Slayer's actions', as you put it," he added.

Montgomery looked geniunely confused. "When did that happen?" he asked.

Thomson grinned savagely. "Oh, didn't your minion Quentin Travers include that in his report on Elizabeth Summers' Cruciamentum? Oh, and _please_ allow me to express my disgust on _that_ particular subject.

"It seems that Travers," he continued, almost spitting at the mention of Travers' name, "kidnapped Elizabeth's mother - Joyce Summers - after she refused to be basically set up to be fed to a vampire. Of course, this was _after_ he sacked her Watcher, Rupert Giles, for actually giving a damn about her welfare!"

"He... he had no authority to do that," Montgomery stammered, all composure lost.

"Do what? Kidnap Joyce Summers, or sack Rupert Giles for nothing more that actually _caring_ for the young woman in his care?" Thomson nearly-shouted.

Watkins put a hand on his shoulder, which served to act as a warning that Thomson just _might_ be overstepping the bounds of his role slighty. The Watchers, of course, saw it differently.

They saw what they thought was a man in danger of losing control of his temperament being restrained.

"The fact remains that Quentin Travers committed criminal acts while on American soil and, as such, is liable to punishment by American courts. Is he present in this room?" Watkins asked smoothly, a deliberate contrast to Thomson's emotional outburst.

Montgomery remained silent, but Travers, obviously deciding that he had to defend himself, spoke up. "I did what I had to do!" he said. "It is our _duty_ to ensure the survival of the human species by _whatever_ means are necessary!"

"Ah, you _are_ present. Excellent," Watkins said. "That makes it much easier. And I find your so-called 'defence' self-serving in the extreme. 'The ends justify the means'." Watkins paused and shook his head. "Quite possibly the oldest, and most tired, excuse in human history."

"That may be so," Mongomery said. "However, his actions regarding Slayer Summer's Cruciamentum will have to be investigated, and if your claims prove to be founded, then his punishment will be overseen by us."

Travers spluttered and started to say something, but he was overridden by Thomson. "Not a chance in hell," he snarled. "Weren't you listening? Travers broke _American_ laws, and he will face an _American_ court. It's as simple as that."

"Fine words," Travers sneered, ignoring frantic 'shut the fuck up, you idiot' gestures from Montgomery. "But the fact of the matter is that the Council has a history that stretches back thirty times as long as your country," he added with a derisive snort. "You will soon learn not to meddle in affairs that are none of your business."

"Was that a threat, _Mister_ Travers?" Thomson purred, while Watkins appeared to be fiddling with something on his collar. "Because if it was, you'll learn in short order not to mess with the big boys."

It couldn't have been more perfectly timed if it had been planned.

After Thomson's statement there was a couple of seconds' silence as the implications began to sink in, and then the dictinctive sound of two Sikorsky S-70 Black Hawk helicopters was directly overhead. The wisdom of Thomson and Watkins' decision _not_ to stand under the skylight became evident as it shattered, and eight black-clad, heavily-armed SAS troopers slid down on ropes. Before the stunned Council could react, they had unimbered sub-machineguns and were training them steadily on the Council members.

Eight more SAS troopers entered through the windows and joined the first eight in aiming automatic weapons at the Council.

The hall's doors were thrown open - barely missing the two law enforcement officers - and through it strode two more SAS soliders, the troop captain and sergeant. Presenting themselves to Watkins, the captain saluted and asked, "Is everything under control, Minister?"

"It is now, thank you Captain," Watkins replied smoothly, while Thomson worked to conceal his surprise.

He leant towards Watkins and whispered, "Is this the 'surprise' you had planned?"

"Yes. Good, isn't it?"

"I'll never understand the British sense of humour."

"There are times when I think even _we_ don't understand it," Watkins murmured. "I think we'd better make the most of our advantage."

"Right." Raising his voice, Thomson said to the Council, who were now Watching something else - the muzzles of sixteen automatic weapons pointed in their direction, held by men who would not hesitate to pull the trigger if ordered to do so, "I told you not to mess with the big boys, Mister Travers. This is just a friendly warning." His voice turned hard as he continued, "Trust me when I say that you _don't_ want to see 'unfriendly'. Now, if you'll excuse us, we have someone to collect. Detective Matthews?"

Detecive Jennifer Matthews stepped forward and said formally, "Quentin Travers, you are under arrest, charged with the following offences: the kidnap of Joyce Summers, conspiracy to commit murder, accessory before the fact to murder, accessory after the fact to murder, conspiracy to prevert the course of justice, and criminal neglect of a minor, Faith Williams. You have the right to-"

Travers deepened the grave he was digging for himself by interrupting with, "Don't you know what Faith Williams _did_? She _killed_ a human!"

To that Thomson replied with, "It's obvious that you never served in the military, Travers, because in those terms, Alan Finch's death was an _accident_ - 'friendly fire', you'll find it's called. Carry on detective."

As Detective Mattews continued reading Travers his rights, Watkins asked quietly, "Long cell stay?"

Thomson shook his head. "Not for him. I can't speak for the prosecution, but my inclination would to to press for the death penalty under federal kidnapping laws... unless he co-operates, of course."

"Of course."

"Since you committed your alleged crimes in the territory of the United States of America, you will be held until extradition proceedings can be completed," Detective Matthews finished, before putting handcuffs on Travers and escorting him from the room.

"One last thing, _gentlemen_," Thomson said. "The only reason that you're not _all_ being arrested is that we don't have any evidence against you. However, your names and descriptions _will_ be placed on the FBI Watch List, and if passports bearing your names are presented at _any_ American point of entry, you will be denied entry and returned to England by the next avaiable means."

He paused and scanned the room before continuing, "In short, you may consider America to be a closed country to your organisation."


End file.
